


Heritage

by flute25



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Dooku Feels, Found Family, Gen, I don't even know how this happened, I mean, THE LINEAGE - Freeform, completely made up backstory to stewjon, i dunno judge for yourself friends, lightly edited, making up space food names, mentions of galidraan, this might be a little ooc?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-12 23:23:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18456734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flute25/pseuds/flute25
Summary: What if Dooku had been the one to find Obi-wan on Stewjon?





	Heritage

**Author's Note:**

> A very complicated response to a very simple Tumblr ask - What if Dooku had been the one to find Obi-wan on Stewjon?
> 
> This thing, uh, got out of hand. I was going to x-post this on Tumblr but 5,000 words is probably pushing the limits of credulity. Below is my initial answer that just...SPIRALED.
> 
> I love my Lineage feels. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Obi-wan was born BBY 57. This, at least according to the canon and Legends we know right now (subject to change when “Master and Apprentice” and the new Dooku audiobook drop, obviously), is before Dooku goes full-on malcontent, so he is still a Jedi, still going on missions, even if he is harboring doubts about the Order. 
> 
> More importantly, this is before the Battle of Galidraan, which in Legends, at least, was a turning point in Dooku’s descent to the Sith. Dooku of BBY 57 is still an esteemed Jedi Master, not yet cracked by his own disillusionment, a peerless politician and scholar, recruited for the Council, etc. 
> 
> So, let’s say Dooku is out on his own during this time and has to attend to a low-level diplomatic mission on Stewjon. It’s not a backwater planet, per se, but neither does it like to assert itself on the galactic stage, seemingly content with its secondary role in Galactic politics. Dooku is sent to broker some trade deals, to oversee a transition in government, and possibly push the new rulers to be more active in the Republic, a goal of a certain sector of the Senate, and therefore a goal of whatever attending Jedi would be present at such negotiations. 

* * *

 Dooku lands in the capital, a sprawling, low-lying city mainly inhabited by the human population and the local Stewjise, an alien race specializing in logging and wood-transparisteel fabrication. Stewjon has a close relationship with Kashyyyk, and there are more than a few Wookiees roaming about the spaceport, not to mention the usual motley array of merchants, engineers, smugglers, and petty criminals that orbit busy spaceports across the galaxy like a plague of locusts. 

 _Qui-gon would like this place_ , Dooku thinks absently, rounding the corner to an open veranda overlooking the city’s main transportation hub, a perfectly organized cross-hatch of turbolifts, trains, and speeder ports, all integrated with the natural deciduous forests blanketing the city. 

 _No,_ Dooku corrects himself, brushing a stray fallen leaf from his shoulder, the brilliant piece of foliage swaying back and forth before settling on the obsidian floor.

 _Qui-gon would *love* this place._  

Life everywhere, flora and fauna poking out from every conceivable corner, every crevice, every pinprick of a hole. The planet is  _teeming_  with the Living Force, and had Dooku less control, or shared his former student’s maddening proclivity towards connecting with all living beings, he might be unable to take one more step forward, so complete, so substantial is the glistening, invisible river that ebbed and flowed between all things.

Which is why the presence of a tiny, stubborn dark blue mass stops Dooku in his tracks. He growls, glancing down at his chronometer. The meeting with the Stewjise ambassador is in ten minutes, and unlike the Farnarians, punctuality  _is_ considered a virtue on this planet. 

He banishes the little blue blob from his mind. Dooku is not part of that Jedi arm tasked with identifying possible Initiates, probing planetary birth records for anomalies that might point to Force sensitivity. And while his duty as a Jedi Master would dictate the discovery of a Force-sensitive child - not only Force-sensitive, but stubbornly aligned with the Unifying Force on a planet not designed for such an orientation -  as an integral part of his responsibilities, Dooku has no patience for small, screaming children, nor for their blubbering parents who protest - often with a dramatic vehemence worthy of the Coruscant opera stage - giving up their offspring up to a mysterious religious order halfway across the galaxy.

Dooku considers a half-torn advertisement for hair dye plastered to a nearby wall. He should be leaving for the ambassador's office right now, but somehow finds himself captivated by the egregious yellow poster hawking false paths to eternal youth.  _Such vanity,_ he sighs, brushing a bit of stray lint from his cloak, his thoughts unconsciously returning to the child, wondering what would become of them here on Stewjon.

Sometimes he, too, wonders what life was forfeit to him when he was sent away to the Order. 

Most Initiates will not become Jedi, their hopes dashed, crushed, as the last thirteen-year-old is paired with a Master, the remainder, the  _unworthy_  sent off to the Agricorps like forgotten pieces of rubbish. Dooku detested this practice, had made his feelings known to Master Yoda more than once. But as always as of late, Yoda had claimed tradition, had pointed with a wizened, clawed hand to the success of the Jedi Order.

 _Better ideas, have you, my former Padawan?_  Yoda had asked, gimmer stick prodding into Dooku’s chest.

A series of vibrations pulse in tandem with Dooku's heartbeart, slow and controlled, nearly in the exact spot the old troll had poked him with that damnable overgrown twig of his. Dooku pulls out his pocket chrono from his inner tunic, flipping the case open with his thumb.

_Five minutes._

It is unseemingly, wallowing in this kind of sentiment. Yes, of course Dooku has ideas, better ideas than most of the Council, which ditheres over picayune political matters instead of engaging in real discussions about the future of the Order, which seems to turn bleaker every day. Again, the little blue blob imposes itself on Dooku’s consciousness, reaching out with a timid arm, almost as if it is sensing Dooku.

Impressive, really, that this young being has a defined Force presence, a solid, if artless shape, splitting the waters of the Living Force as they cascade around the little blob.

“Master Dooku!”

Dooku starts, swinging around, cursing himself for letting his attention wander. The human representative for the Stewjise government is regarding him with an amused smile and a single raised eyebrow. 

“Will you be joining us for negotiations, Master Dooku?”

Damn these smug Stewjise. The human part of their population has a reputation of wielding words as one would a lightsaber, all while toeing the line of outright insolence with their flippant, often caustic remarks, diplomacy teetering between a gentleman's duel and outright warfare. It is no wonder flyting is such a popular pastime among the locals, a battle of wits and artistry as two combatants would face off in a skirmish of ever-elevating insults.

“Of course, Ambassador,” he responds to the copper and grey-haired man, who has taken his chin with his hand. “I look forward to the negotiations.”

“As do I,” the man responds with a jaunty wave, and Dooku can practically feel his laughter through the Force as he strides away.

The blue blob pulls at him, with even more insistence. 

There is nothing to be done about it. Dooku has retired from teaching, for certain this time, and this is only some random child, not even an Initiate. There is no guarantee he would be its Master, no guarantee the arcane rules of the Order wouldn’t end up shipping this being off to Bandomeer or some other uncivilized backwater where its potential would go to waste. 

If such potential was real. 

 _Inconsequential._ The Jedi were no place for a child such as this. With a swift twirl of his cape, Dooku wills himself to forget the tiny light, casting its memory far into the dark ocean of the Force. He turns on his heel, striding down the lofty, arched corridors, towards the ornate government offices.

 

* * *

 

The negotiations are a success, of course. The Stewjise agree to another five-year resource sharing agreement with the Wookiees and more importantly, Dooku has extracted a promise from the Prime Minister to form an exploratory committee to send the first Stewjise representatives to the Senate in over a hundred years. 

The victory rings hollow to him, although he cannot quite say why.

Still, the new treaty is celebrated with a modest dinner, roast haunch of  _lumqer_ served with a side of  _tyro root_  sauteed in a particularly delightful  _ilo_  and pepper sauce. This is all washed down with several glasses of  _spiccar_ , a local delicacy whose crystal-clear presentation and initial fruity notes act as a clever facade for a surprisingly strong  _picante_  afterburn.

Dooku chokes on his first glass, doing his best to hide his crimson face behind a too-small beige napkin, recalling a warning from his mission briefing between a series of embarrassing wet coughs. Across from him, the eyes of the copper-haired man from earlier crinkle as the corner of his mouth quirks upwards.

_The Stewjise are constantly full of surprises._

“That is…quite the beverage, Ambassador,” Dooku croaks, dabbing at the beads of sweat that have collected on his brow. “Do all simple-looking food and drink on this planet have similar potential?”  

The man smiles, pushing a lock of hair away from his forehead. “Only the ones we serve our friends.”

 _Of course_ , Dooku grumbles to himself. But there is something in the man’s statement that gives him pause, tugging at the loose strands of a half-buried desire washing up on the shores of his thoughts. Simple surfaces often hide great depths. One could not be a student of Yoda for as long as he had without accepting that aphorism as truth. But, as the  _spiccar_  so mercilessly reminded him, what _he_ knows to be true for himself, a concept shared with the Stewjise, it seems, is that a veneer of propriety is a weapon like any other, a distraction, a false flag waving in the wind as the true blade - both real and metaphorical - strikes home. 

 _That_  type of skill requires cultivation, yes, but also a natural predisposition. Qui-gon never had it. He was too earnest, too idealistic, too connected to the Living Force in an almost visceral way, returning to their quarters one too many times mud-stained, and grinning, as if he had tried to become one with the roots of the Force itself. 

But a child of this planet, which seems to thrive on innuendo, where word-play and deft verbal maneuvering are woven into the very structure of its society... A child who shines so bright in the midnight green of Stewjon's living forests... 

“Ambassador, in the spirit of your planet’s proclamations of friendship, allow me to make an unorthodox request of my own.”

 

* * *

 

It is not every day Master Dooku comes to the Jedi Temple. As one of the Order’s best diplomats and most controversial scholars, he is more often than not on missions, or buried in some secret archive, investigating dark objects, contemplating forbidden Sith history. He is a towering presence in the Order, his mythology only having grown in his increasing absence, a master of a Makashi, as ruthless with his tongue as he is with his short saber strikes. 

But today he strides through the main corridor of the Temple at midday, posture erect, each step a perfect calculation - one, two - tapping in a consistent, steady rhythm, his cape billowing in his wake.

In his arms, he is holding a child.

The younger Knights in the Order stop and gawk, their eyes round, mouths open at the incongruent sight. Even their elders, Jedi Masters who hardly blink at their student’s antics, at combat, at any number of life and death situations - they, too, pause, their inner senses tracking the tall, patrician man as he approaches a small, green figure at the end of the hall. 

The child in Dooku’s arms coos.

“Master Dooku!” Yoda croaks, amusement playing on his features, eyeing the small bundle cradled against Dooku’s chest. “Unexpected, your visit is. A souvenir from Stewjon, have you brought me?”

“I was unable to procure any  _tyro root_ , Master, my apologies. It seems the trafficking of indigenous crops off-planet would violate a number of the trade agreements I helped to facilitate.” Dooku fixes the diminutive Jedi Master with a bland smile, ignoring the small hands grasping at his inner tunic. “You understand, of course.”

Yoda sways his gimmer stick back and forth, as if he is steering an old Serenno skiff. “Mmm, accepted your apology is. The child is, perhaps the consolation prize? Not as tasty as  _tyro root_ ," Yoda tuts, reaching an arm upward. Some long-buried instinct overrides Dooku’s better sense as he bends over to give his former Master easier access to the child. A high-pitched laugh sounds from the bundle of cloths as Yoda gives a light squeeze to a pudgy arm, sending the equivalent of bright pink bubbles through the Force. He peers at the child, whose blue-grey eyes shine as they track the invisible orbs across the ceiling of the Jedi Temple.  

Yoda drops his hand, regarding Dooku with a calculating stare.

“Weeks after the negotiations were finished, you had. Yet of no delay we heard, no reason for your absence. Perhaps, the child not ripe enough for me to eat, you thought?”

The small gaggle of Padawans gathered in a distant corner let out a collective gasp. They respect - and fear - the old Jedi Master, cannot understand his riddles, his way of speaking, nor anything else about him. Among his many mysteries is his stew, which is infamous within the walls of the Temple, each class of Padawans building upon the last, their guesses as to what exactly constituted the sludgy liquid growing more and more outlandish with each iteration. 

Children, it seems, would soon be added to the list. 

Dooku glances down just as the child takes the lapel of his tunic in his mouth, gnawing at the edges with a gummy, satisfied smile.

“The youngling required further inspection.”

Yoda frowns. “Chefs, we have here in the Temple. An ample kitchen, for children to be prepared. Not your job, that is.”

“And to that kitchen, he will go, Master,” Dooku responds, heated. A young Padawan squeals in horror, Dooku and Yoda turning in tandem to send a glare of reproach in his direction.

“As I was saying, Master, he will go to your so-called kitchen. Will learn, will be primed, trained in the essentials as any other youngling.” Dooku is tiring of this juvenile subterfuge, opting to cast away the much of the coded language they have been using. “And when the time comes, he will join me, as I have prepared him for.”

“Prepared, you say?" Yoda frowns, tapping his gimmer stick with impatience. "Guarantee you can, that he will be trained? And what if these expectations, he does not meet? Ripen, he does not? Allow him to be released, to Bandomeer, or a place similar, will you?”

Dooku’s face darkens at the onslaught of questions as he clutches at the child, who pauses from his cloth snack to regard Dooku with wide-eyed trepidation. 

“That,” the Jedi growls, “will not happen.”

 

* * *

 

“ _You killed them. You killed them all. We’re all dead._ ”

The blood clings to him, to his clothing, his hands, the ozone-laden air suffocating his senses until all he can hear is the shriek of blaster fire, all he can feel is loss, a void formed from the extinguishing of three hundred candles, all snuffed out within a matter of hours. 

_By the Jedi._

By him.

Dooku is no stranger to violence, does not fear to do what must be done. But the Council has betrayed him, has run roughshod over every oath, every promise he made all those years ago.

And for what?

He stalks through the corridors of the Temple, ignoring the worried stares, the murmurs, the expressions of outright shock. If his Force presence has darkened, if he has touched something  _forbidden -_

Well, he was just doing what the Council asked of him, wasn’t he?

Three hundred lives. If three hundred lives do not matter to them, why should they matter to him? After all, they were criminals and terrorist - dangerous and better off eliminated.

Orders.  _The_ Order. He laughs at the irony. For all his talk of independent thought, he still followed, still obeyed, still traveled to Galidraan with an anvil of dread in his gut.

And for this, he has forsaken…everything.

He is done fighting, done challenging the status quo of an Order he now knows to be putrifying from the inside, an Order who is held on a leash by a corrupt Senate, an Order that dares not change lest that yoke be pulled.

Change would have to begin from the outside.

Dooku throws open the room of his quarters, pulling off his blood-stained, sweaty tunics. His chest heaves in frustration, and he balls up the fabric in his hand, throwing it into the makeshift fireplace he had installed in his room years ago. A quick flick of his fingers ignites a towering blaze, the clothing, and with it, the memories, he hopes, turning to ash within seconds.

No more. He will abide by this no charade no more.

He pulls a forgotten tunic from the back of his closet. It is a deep, almost bloody mahogany, made for him on Serenno, and Dooku quite likes the poetry of it. After all, he is no Jedi, he is a murderer and should present as such. It fits him like no other garment has, smooth and impeccably tailored, and Dooku wonders why he had waited so long to take this simple step.

Of course, he cannot leave tonight, no matter how tempting the urge, how strong the pull. There are artifacts to acquire, for one, and he cannot jeopardize his status before he can lay his hands on the most forbidden of those objects. 

A plan. He needs a plan. A partner, maybe, someone he can trust.

The list of possible candidates is pitifully small, he thinks, as he hurries out the door, heading towards the Archives.

There is Sifo-Diyas, the closest thing Dooku has had to a friend in the Order in the past ten years. But unlike himself, Sifo-Diyas lacks mettle, is too easily swayed by Yoda and the Council, will not voice his concerns unless Dooku is there to serve as his backup.

No, Sifo-Diyas is the wrong choice. An ally for the future, to be certain, but he needs someone more like him, a protege, a student -

“Ooof!”

Dooku curses as he slams into another being. His control is teetering, and no good decisions come from an act of pure passion. He can only hope the being he plowed into was not a Council member. That was not a conversation he relished having at the moment.

“Master?”

Not a Council member, then. Quite the opposite, if the rumors circulating about his former student prove to be true. Perhaps it is the will of the Force, although he is more inclined to chalk this fortuitous meeting up to anything but. 

Dooku needs a partner, one who would align with his outlook, who would not cow at the prospect of challenging the Order. And as much as they had bickered over the years, Dooku had managed to instill a healthy skepticism of the Council into Qui-gon, had fostered a habit of questioning everything and everyone around him, even Dooku himself, much to his dismay at the time. It was all a question if Qui-gon would be willing -

“I’m sorry Master, it’s - I don’t have time to talk.”

This snaps Dooku to attention, all plans of insurrection temporarily forgotten. There are details that spring forward, pebbles which erode at his hopes that some form of agreement will be formed today. Qui-gon is looking more bedraggled than usual, his long hair hastily pulled back into a tangled ponytail, his tunics old and wrinkled, his Force presence pulsing with barely-contained anxiety. The circles under his eyes are as dark as Dooku's own.

“If you have no time to talk, then take a moment and talk, Qui-gon. You are not yourself.”

It is the wrong thing to say, as Qui-gon’s lips purse, his fists clenching as he heaves a great sigh at the ceiling. It is a fantastic likeness to the same man, only decades earlier. If Dooku didn’t know better, he would have thought he had been hurtled back in time to his Padawan’s adolescence. 

“There’s no  _time_ , Master," Qui-gon grits, "I’m due on the next transport for Bandomeer, and of course it’s the same one as the  _boy_  - “

“What boy?” Dooku interjects, the Force nipping at the edges of his instincts.

Qui-gon opens his mouth to answer, but words fail him. He settles for a moody glower before crossing his arms over his broad chest. Dooku’s intuition is correct. It is not the mission, but this boy that is the crux of whatever upset his former Padawan is wallowing in.

"That is of no - " Qui-gon shakes his head, peering at Dooku with a quizzical expression. "Nevermind that," he says, pulling a large hand over his face, halting at his beard.

Several moments of silence later, Qui-gon bites his lips, his fingers playing at the edges of his distressed tunics. He eyes Dooku with trepidation.

“Master, why did you stop taking students?”

Now it is Dooku’s turn to be without words. He somehow manages to keep his jaw firmly in place as a million excuses race through his mind. He is too old, too tired, too disillusioned with the Order, the nightmares of Galidraan ringing fresh in his mind, sharp splatters of blood inked in pure, white snow. To his left, a severed hand, to his right, the vacant, unseeing stare of yet another of the dead.

He was not monster enough to ask a child to swear fealty to an organization that spoke of peace yet sanctioned such monstrosities.

“My work, as a Shadow,”  _as the Jedi’s dog,_ he thinks. “It is not appropriate for a child. Althouhg perhaps now that I am contemplating - “

Qui-gon frowns. “Contemplating _what_?” He knows this tone, knows his Master is planning something, and the skepticism ringing through his question all but makes Dooku's decision for him. 

No, Qui-gon is not the right choice for what he plans to do. Not now, at least.

“Inconsequential,” Dooku answers with a quick shake of his head. “You are bothered, Qui-gon. Speak.” The order is almost second-nature at this point, its full message understood by both men.  _Speak your mind, Padawan, or I will be forced to drag it out of you._

This seems to pull Qui-gon from his well of self-pity, as he rubs at his forehead in a familiar gesture that speaks of a frustration born of his student's curious, characteristic inability to properly verbalize his emotions. 

“It’s just…the boy. Obi-wan. He’s being sent to Bandomeer today. And there’s this connection. Master Yoda senses it, I pretend not to. But I  _can’t_ , Master, he’s too angry, too similar Xanatos and I cannot again - ! “

Qui-gon throws his hands against his thighs, but Dooku pays the outburst no heed. His own stomach has plummeted into icy depths, terrible realization churning, growing like a tidal wave.

He is _too late._

Thirteen years. Already thirteen years. The child who was supposed to be  _his_ , the potential, wasted, cast away on a dirty barge heading to the worst backwaters of the galaxy. 

“Did - did no one take him?” he manages to ask through clenched teeth.

Qui-gon shakes his head, oblivious of his Master’s emotions. 

_He was going to be mine._

“I am sorry.”

There is nothing more to say.

“As am I,” Qui-gon answers, weary. "May the Force be with you, Master.”

He had been so wrapped up in his duties, so overwhelmed, so busy spilling blood, that time's steady current has become a series of tumultuous, unpredictable rapids.

_Thirteen years._

Dooku can only nod in return, unwilling to utter the expected response as Qui-gon stalks away. After all, what has the Force brought him in these recent years? Misery, loss, the realization the Order he has devoted his life to is every bit and flawed and corrupt as the Senate. To think Obi-wan would be his last tie to the Jedi, that teaching would be his salvation after all of this - and even that was stolen from him by the Jedi’s lack of vision. 

He sees the dark, crimson cloud before he feels it enter his body, the same foreboding heaviness that has been following him for years now. But unlike before, he doesn’t bother to fight it, instead welcomes it with open arms, breathing in the leaden, damp air that threatens a tempest with every step. It is power, it is anger, it is intoxicating.

It is change.

In darkness there is clarity, only visible from the outside. 

He is Yan Dooku, Jedi Master no longer. He will change. He will exact change. He will  _be_ change.

His first step will be to reclaim what was stolen from him as a child.

His birthright on Serenno. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Traitor.”

It is difficult to see the man in the bowels of the Geonosian caves. The restraints only serve to complicate matters. The Geonosians favor a repulsor, force-field technology that, while effective at rendering their quarry immobile, also rotates at a steady, infuriating pace, much like a pig on a spit. 

Still, there is no mistaking the High Coruscanti accent, so similar is it to Dooku’s own, no confusion as to who the shadow of a bulbous blue Force presence belongs to, now grown, taking shape into something far greater than Dooku could have ever imagined.

This is a mistake, and he tells the young man as much. He should not be captive, at least, not like this. But Dooku must make allowances for his distasteful partners, and the Geonosians have a strange capability to be utterly barbaric in their dealings with prisoners. 

“I thought you were the leader here, Dooku.” Kenobi is calm, measured in his accusations. Trapped on a distant planet, far away from the Council, from any aid - and yet he does not panic, does not allow a sliver of fear to manifest in his features. 

“This had nothing to do with me, I assure you,” Dooku responds. This is the truth, no matter how much the Council would deny it. Kenobi is here because of the Order’s decisions, because of their lack of judgment, their willing ignorance - just the same as Dooku. 

Kenobi allows himself a thin, polite smile. “Well, I hope it doesn’t take too long. I have work to do.” 

The same intonation, if not the same accent as the Stewjise ambassador who smirked as Dooku coughed on a glass of  _spiccar_ years ago. They have nearly the same hair, the same condescending glare, and Dooku realizes the man from the past must have been a direct relative of Kenobi, perhaps even his unwitting father, so similar are their microexpressions. 

Kenobi knows none of this, Dooku is certain. He had the records on Stewjon expunged of any reference to the existence of an Obi-wan Kenobi before he had left with the child. A terrible tragedy - an orphan youngling gone missing, no body, no explanation. Only questions that would never have an answer. Guilt is something Dooku no longer has need for, but his chest twinges at the memory of what he had done.

He crushes the mawkish, ridiculous sentiment, grinds it to dust. This is no time for softness, no time to rue decisions that cannot be taken back. The pause in the conversation has allowed the young Jedi come round again, and Dooku looks into the very same blue-grey eyes that traced a pattern of bubbles on the Temple ceiling long ago. 

“May I ask why a Jedi Knight is all the way out here on Geonosis?” A test to see how forthcoming Kenobi will be, the first of many, if this meeting goes in Dooku’s favor.

“I’ve been tracking a bounty hunter named Jango Fett. Do you know him?”

_You killed them. You killed them all. We’re all dead._

Dooku flexes his hand, scratching at invisible blood stains etched in the creases of his palm. He has committed far worse atrocities in the intervening years, killed many more for far less, but Galidraan remains the original sin, the seminal moment from which he could never recover.

“There are no bounty hunters here that I am aware of.” He _will_ have Fett eliminated once and for all if he and his small clone are moonlighting behind his back. Dooku smiles at Kenobi, as if sharing a private joke. “The Geonosians don’t trust them.” Nor does he.

“Well, who can blame them, but he is here, I assure you.”

 _Slash. Parry. Riposte._ Dooku wonders what lighstaber form Kenobi uses, if his maneuvers are as deft as his words. It is a pleasure to match wits with this man, despite the circumstances, and once again Dooku finds himself cast back to that day on Stewjon, the breeze fluttering across the high plains as he boards his vessel with a stolen child. 

“It’s a great pity our paths have never crossed before, Obi-wan. Qui-gon always spoke very highly of you.”

It was all Qui-gon spoke of the few times Dooku had deigned to visit the Temple after leaving the Order, the precious silver-tongued Padawan with a will to match Qui-gon’s own and a streak of self-sacrifice a parsec wide. Dooku does not know what had occurred between the two in those early days, but there was something off in Qui-gon’s stories, some element the older Jedi never seemed to be able to parse.

Something had gone  _wrong_.

If Kenobi had been  _his_  student, there would be none of these inclinations towards martyrdom, none of this hidden insecurity, this misplaced desire for approval Dooku could read between the sweet words of Qui-gon’s tales, could sense rippling off Kenobi at the mere mention of his former Master’s name. 

“…I wish he were still alive,” Dooku sighs, half to himself. “I could use his help right now.”

“Qui-gon Jinn would never join you.”

Dooku chuckles. How certain the young man is of Qui-gon, how quick to come to his defense, even as doubt sours his words. Kenobi licks his lips, his gaze intent,  _too_  intent on the older man. Kenobi is good, but he is young, and age has bequeathed onto Dooku a sixth sense, an ability to read volumes from the smallest of expressions. 

The waver of uncertainty is all the information Dooku needs.

“Don’t be so sure, my young Jedi. You forget, he was once my apprentice, as you were once his. He knew all about the corruption in the Senate, but he would have never had gone along with it if he had learned the truth, as I have.”

Fishing was never a favored activity of the Serreno nobility. Uncouth as a sport and plebian as a trade, no member of the aristocratic families would be seen near a tackle and line. And yet, Dooku relishes this image, he as the fisherman, Kenobi as his prey, and he can see the lure pierce the young man, the promise of an untold truth suspected, hidden accusations coming to light, tempting him closer. All Dooku needs to do is pull. 

_The Order is lying to you, Kenobi. Accept that, and you will be freed._

“The truth?” the young man asks, his voice tight.

“The truth.”

_Age does not relish witnessing the replication of its own mistakes. Open your eyes, Kenobi, let go of your attachment to this notion of the good Jedi, of an Order that is anything but a corrupt organization._

Dooku takes a deep breath, steadying his nerves.

“What if I told you the Republic was now under the control of a Dark Lord of the Sith?”

There, he has said it. He half expects Sidious to fly down from the rafters and strike him dead, and he is ashamed as his gaze travels upwards to confirm there is no one there. But nothing happens, there is no movement but Kenobi’s own, no sound but the young man’s startled intake of breath and the consistent drone of the energy field. Sidious is powerful, but he is still mortal, still with limits, and the thought of being caught is the mere fancy of a scared child.

“No, that’s not possible.” Obi-wan’s brows furrow, the single indication of the conflict within himself. “The Jedi would be aware of it.”

It was a mistake to allow this man out of his sight, to let the Temple creche indoctrinate him. Undoing their work will take time, now that the child is a man, more set in his ways, in his opinions, never having stared Jedi hypocrisy in its face.

“The Dark Side of the Force has clouded their vision, my friend. Hundreds of Senators are now under the influence of a Sith Lord called Darth Sidious.”

_Believe me, Kenobi. This is for your own good._

“I don’t believe you.”

Dooku feels him slipping, the once secure catch now fighting, Dooku’s line taut. It will break soon, this final connection to the child who he had kept for weeks in a cold spaceship, doing all he could to pass on himself - his manner, his speech, his person. Kenobi was to be the last, the greatest, of his students, one who he could truly call an heir and now it is all crumbling before his very eyes.

“The Viceroy of the Trade Federation was once in league with this Darth Sidious. But he was betrayed ten years ago, by the Dark Lord. He came to me for help. He told me everything.”

_Ten years ago, Kenobi, your Master was murdered in cold blood while you looked on. Ten years ago you were betrayed, not for the first time, by the Jedi Order._

“You must join me, Obi-wan. And together, we will destroy the Sith!”

_And then the Jedi._

Dooku gives one last, desperate tug, but it is for naught. The line snaps, its frayed end hanging limp from Dooku’s hand.

“I will never join you, Dooku.” 

There is a finality to the statement, a confidence absent in the young man’s previous words and Dooku knows he has lost his chance. Once again, the Jedi have taken from him. 

And if he cannot have what rightfully his, he will take the one thing he knows cannot be stolen.

Revenge. 

Dooku casts a dark glare in Kenobi's direction, heading toward the exit.

“It may be difficult to secure your release.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, guys, I have to tell that retconning the whole scene with Dooku and Obes in AotC was a TREAT. Wow. So much fun. Gods, I love them!!!!!
> 
> Want to flail about THE LINEAGE? Come say hi on tumblr! The Friendly Lego Compound [@legobiwan](http://legobiwan.tumblr.com/) || The Lair of Mischievous Snakes [@be-a-snake-stab-your-brother](https://be-a-snake-stab-your-brother.tumblr.com/)


End file.
